


To Open Their Shut Up Hearts

by Nny



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Christmas, First Kiss, Inspired by A Christmas Carol, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-10
Updated: 2014-12-10
Packaged: 2018-02-28 22:50:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,165
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2750054
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nny/pseuds/Nny
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em>The light fades out pretty early in the afternoon, but his laptop's on and Stiles keeps flicking his thumb across the screen of his phone. Derek’s unimpressed face stares at him in pulses of light, but he still hasn't pressed the green button. It’s not like Derek will exactly bring the Christmas cheer. </em>
</p><p>Stiles is feeling a little like a Dickens character. Three people show him the error of his ways.</p>
            </blockquote>





	To Open Their Shut Up Hearts

**Author's Note:**

  * For [matildajones](https://archiveofourown.org/users/matildajones/gifts).



> I really hope you enjoy it, Season's Greetings!

Stiles snorts as the balloon hits, disrupting the perfect four-part harmony into a shrieking mass. He leans out of the window and yells after them. 

“Merry Christmas!”

His phone chimes softly, but it’s the heavy tread on the stairs that has him diving for his bed, snatching up the first thing that comes to hand; he’s reclining innocently when his dad bursts through the door, but there’s a possibility that reading Rivers of London upside down could be held against him in a court of law. 

“Evening, pops,” he says, picture of the perfect child - the perfect adult, maybe, although college honestly hasn’t made him feel any more grown up, any more capable of coping with the world. He’s been here three days and he hasn’t even managed to unpack yet, and by the time he does it’ll probably be time to go back. Whatever. It isn’t like there’s anyone around to see. 

“Stiles,” his dad says, and then just lets out a long breath. Nostrils flared, mouth thinned, maximum parental disapproval in one handy package. Frankly his dad’s annoyed expression isn’t much on Derek’s - like, it hasn’t actually migrated into resting face just yet - but there’s weight there. Years of it. 

Stiles squirms. 

“They were ringers, dad, they were from Juillard or something.” 

“They were eleven.”

“No eleven year old knows four part harmony. I’m pretty sure one had a _beard_.” 

“Which of course you could see, all the way from the window of your bedroom - which, might I add, you haven’t left in three days.” 

Stiles could cope better if it was just annoyance, is the thing. It’s the edge of worry that bothers him, how easy it’d be for that to edge right over into pity. He shrugs one shoulder like he hasn't been waiting, like every time an engine growls past his stomach hasn’t reminded him that the tone isn't _quite_ right. He’s glad Derek went back to the Camaro, at least, because every other soccer mom’s got a Toyota and he’s not sure his nerves could take it. 

“Just not feeling it,” is all he mumbles, and his dad comes forward enough to wrap one hand around his ankle, the way he used to when he came to say goodnight before a night shift, just before mom came to read a story. It’s not helping. Stiles shifts his leg away. 

There’s a tree in the living room that hasn't been decorated yet. It’s a tradition that they decorate it together, with all the ornaments they’ve had hanging around for years; they eat cookies and drink cocoa and it’s kind of terrible, like one of those ads they only run around Christmas, like a window into a holiday unreality that’s too good to be true. There’s mistletoe over the kitchen door, and a box of Christmas books with _The Night Before Christmas_ right at the front, even though nobody’s read it for nearly ten years. Right now the tree’s still bare, just sitting there and judging Stiles from the corner every time he goes down to get something to eat. His dad’s face is a little like that tree right now; judging sure, but also kind of sad, a little lonely, like Stiles is single-handedly screwing up his Christmas. 

“It’s been a hard year,” his dad says, because it has, because it always is, because they basically live on the Hellmouth and even when Stiles isn't in Beacon Hills he can’t sleep for worrying about everyone that is. 

Stiles just rubs a hand across his face and doesn't answer. His dad pats his ankle as he stands up. 

“You just always loved Christmas,” he says. Stiles hates his tone. 

 

*

The light fades out pretty early in the afternoon, but his laptop's on and Stiles keeps flicking his thumb across the screen of his phone. Derek’s unimpressed face stares at him in pulses of light, but he still hasn't pressed the green button. It’s not like Derek will exactly bring the Christmas cheer. 

Plus there's the part of him that wants Derek to make the first move. Not like - Stiles is acutely aware of his own level of attractiveness, he’s not going to fool himself, but he’d been working on friends. He’d thought they had friends down. Only Derek hasn't texted him once since he was back for Thanksgiving, and forgive him for wanting a little pining, okay, especially after spending the holiday practically in each other’s pockets. 

His phone chimes twice in quick succession, Scott’s painful spelling flashing up on his screen. The scraping against the side of the house cuts him off before he replies, and he abruptly pushes to his feet, his chair wheeling back across the floor. 

It would be kind of uncharitable to say that he’s a little disappointed when it’s Scott’s grinning face that appears outside his window, teeth clenched firmly around the top of a bag of Doritos, but that only lasts until Scott clambers in, crosses the room, and winds him up inside of a hug that could make anyone’s heart grow three sizes. Stiles buries his nose in Scott’s shoulder and takes a happy lung full of practically everything Christmas. 

“Have you been baking?” 

Scott’s grin widens. 

“My abuela’s up for the holidays. Mom’s going crazy but I swear the house has never smelled so good.” 

“So we can expect you at, what, noon Christmas day?” 

“Maybe earlier.” Scott punches Stiles’ arm, dialed back enough that it’ll only bruise for maybe a week. He’s kind of an asshole. “You’ve been wasting valuable vacation time, man, nobody’s even seen you yet.” 

Stiles hunches a little, defensive. 

“I didn’t know there was anything to miss,” he says. 

Scott rolls his eyes, pulls open the bag of chips and collapses backwards onto Stiles’ bed, which he’s not gonna lie is getting kinda stale. 

“So you ask me, or you text Kira who’s basically dying to hear from you. I even ran into Lydia at the mall and she _asked_ about you,” Scott says, like the rules of high school still apply. Stiles bites down on the urge to ask if anyone else asked after him, because he is actually not a high schooler any more and this is getting kind of pathetic. 

Stiles grabs a handful of chips and flops onto the end of the bed, his shoulder jostling against Scott’s. Scott squirms over until he can rest his head, deliberately obnoxiously heavy, on Stiles’ shoulder. 

“We missed you, man,” he says, and Stiles fight futilely against a smile and rubs Dorito dust into Scott’s hair. 

 

*

 

Scott had to leave for dinner, his abuela’s a dragon and had scared the hell out of Stiles when he was a kid. Still kind of does. His dad had called out a goodbye maybe three hours before, and Stiles has been screwing around on the computer ever since. Every social media platform is plastered with mistletoe pictures, Christmas trees, gifs of dancing reindeer. He ends up killing zombies for hours purely out of self defense, but it leaves him the wrong side of closing time, wide awake and craving red vines. 

It’s cold outside, kinda crisp, and he’s maybe the only person in the whole of Beacon Hills who’s awake. There’s Christmas lights in every window in his neighborhood, in every shop as he makes his way downtown, but Derek’s neighborhood is deserted and miserable. The only flickering lights are the streetlight on the corner and the buzzing neon on the bodega on the corner. 

His phone chimes three times, soft against his thigh, but he ignores it. There was never really any question that he was going to end up here. 

Derek’s waiting in the doorway when he makes his way upstairs, code punched in, numbers tripping off his fingers like second nature. He’s dressed for sleep, sweatpants sagging on his hips, black tank doing nothing to hide his body, and Stiles just wants, helplessly and hopelessly. He hates himself for it because there’s no way Derek can’t tell; he figures this is why his phone’s been free of laconic two word responses for the better part of a month, now. Derek jerks his head and Stiles follows him in, shrugging off his jacket and settling onto the couch, with his hands dangling between his knees. 

There’s nothing in the loft to hint at the time of year. Stiles had kind of thought it’d be comforting but it turns out that without the constant avalanche beating down on him there is maybe a spark of Christmas spirit lurking deep in his soul. The loft seems extra bare, extra dark, with just the lamp by Derek’s bed for illumination, a book open and face down on the pillow. 

And Stiles just feels like a dick. He’s been feeling sorry for himself because he doesn’t get to have Derek the way he wants him; Derek doesn’t get to have anybody. It’s pretty even money that he’s the first person to even think of Derek, this Christmas, and doesn’t that just shove a stake of holly right through the heart?

“Is it cool that I’m here?” he asks abruptly, remembering for a second the source of his angst. Derek gives him a look like he’s an idiot, and Stiles wonders for a second if anyone else even has the code for the door. “Good,” he says, interpreting madly from Derek’s eyebrows, a language he’s practically fluent in, “‘cos I missed you. It kinda sucked not hearing from you.” 

Derek’s eyebrows twitch, a second’s confusion, and Stiles lets out a long breath. 

“No, I know. A month isn’t so long, but you’re kind of my go to, man. Just past Scott on my speed dial. I get kinda lost without you.” 

You’d have to be charitable to call the expression that flits across Derek’s face a smile, but Stiles is suddenly feeling the season, the joy, the giving, so he’s rolling with the hint of warmth. And rule one of Christmas spirit is the compulsory sharing. 

“My dad needs to know when you’re arriving for Christmas dinner,” he says, “we’re gonna have the McCalls around the table too so it’ll be kind of a tight fit; I figure you can tell him when you come help us with the tree tomorrow, right?” Derek’s seriously staring at him now like he’s insane, like he’s taken a left turn somewhere and left Derek standing. 

“Right?” Stiles repeats, cocking his eyebrow, a challenge. The warm yellow of the lamplight does amazing things for Derek’s bone structure, not like he needed the help, and Stiles’ eyes flick over his face from feature to feature, stopping when he reaches Derek’s lips, which are honest to god curling up in a way that’s like a kick to the stomach. Slow, genuine, no holds barred. 

And there’s no hiding the way his heart thumps unevenly in his chest. His eyes fly up to meet Derek’s, and there’s a look in them that’s almost familiar, something that’s colored other expressions before but that he’s never seen in its pure form. Derek shifts over to sit on the edge of the bed, his eyes dark in the dim light of the loft, and Stiles swallows hard. 

“Oh for some freakin’ mistletoe,” he says, half under his breath, and then flushes a painful ridiculous red. 

“You need an excuse?” Derek says, finally breaking the silence he’s held. His voice is low and amused and rough with something that Stiles hesitates to name. He swallows hard, pushes to his feet, sits on the bed beside Derek a little more quickly, a little less elegantly than he would’ve gone for, given the choice. 

Derek’s fingers nudge against his, lightly, and when Stiles looks over his eyes are fixed on where he’s deliberately weaving their fingers together. 

“I missed you, too,” he says, without looking up. The breath Stiles lets out is a little shaky, because he is ever and always cool, and it’s not like there was ever going to be any disguising this. 

Derek grins with his head still ducked, looks up at Stiles through his lashes. “But if you make one Christmas related pun,” he says, voice threatening laughter, “unwrapping presents, or eggnog, or - I don’t know, sleigh bells…”

“Sleigh bells?” Stiles chokes out, his hand twitching in Derek’s grip, “how would that even - ?” 

Derek’s mouth against his cuts him off. Said like that it sounds like there’s something forceful about it, something fast; it’s more like a sort of slow inevitability, a gentle brush of skin that has a weight behind it like tectonic plates, like there’s no hope of stopping this now they’ve begun. 

“You tell me,” Derek says, soft and happy, when he pulls just barely away. “You’re the one who’s in love with Christmas.”

Stiles blinks, dazed for a second, and then his mouth curls helplessly upward into a no doubt stupid looking smile. 

“Yeah,” he says, just before he leans back in. “I guess maybe I am.”


End file.
